


It Practically Writes Itself

by Plenoptic



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adoribull - Freeform, Domestic Fluff, Drunken Shenanigans, F/F, F/M, Limited spoilers, M/M, Post Trespasser DLc, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-13
Updated: 2016-02-13
Packaged: 2018-05-20 06:35:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5995132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Plenoptic/pseuds/Plenoptic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Most of them—Mae included—missed the wedding, so the Inquisition celebrates a happy union the only way it knows how.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Practically Writes Itself

**Author's Note:**

> A Valentine's Day giftfic for the lovely ~lonicera-caprifolium over on Tumblr, who makes the best Adoribull fanart on this side of Thedas.
> 
> Edit 2/21: Skinner is a girl again. Thanks to ~LaviniaD for catching the typo.

They are in her office when Maeveris first senses that something is amiss; she can see the question in his eyes. Dorian always looks the same when he's about to say something of import, worries his lower lip with his teeth and strokes his mustache while his brows furrow. She decides to put him out of his misery, setting down her book and looking at him with an impish smile.

"Yes, love?"

He sucks in a breath. Holds it. "There’s... someone I want you to meet.”

“Oh, dear. I’m not about to be introduced to some Venatori trussed-up in your basement, am I?”

 Dorian smiles, an easy thing that suits his face. “No, Mae. Up for a little trip?”

 “How long?”

 “Just a day’s ride, down to the border.”

 Maeveris looks at him, takes in his form. Dorian’s aged well, still not a single grey in that gorgeous head of hair, no wrinkles on his face save for the faint lines on his forehead because he is always scowling down at another Magister or old grimoire. But he’s only been back one year. There is time yet for him to prove that he is mortal like the rest of them. She wonders if this little aside has anything to do with the communication crystal hanging against his chest. “Then yes, I am. It will be good to get away.”

 He laughs and pats her shoulder, lets her kiss his forehead. Such a sweet boy, Dorian. Mae doesn’t know what she’d do without him. “It always is.”

 

* * *

 

They leave at sun-up and ride the day away. Tevinter falls away beneath them, so many sloping plains and gentle woods. Maeveris gives herself over to the ease of their ride, lets herself enjoy the smell of the trees and the warmth of the sun on her shoulders. As the day wears on, she senses a tension in Dorian, an eagerness, like he’s willing time to move faster. She warns him not to use magic to nudge it along, and he shoots her a rueful smile that’s basically an admission that he’d been considering it.

 The sky has just begun to darken when Dorian finally eases his horse down to a walk, patting its sweating flank. They ride along a winding path that leads down to a lake, and Maeveris sees a small villa through the parting trees. She raises an eyebrow at Dorian’s back. He escapes every so often, she knows, seeking respite from his duties and the general madness that is the Tevinter Imperium. Why he has brought her this time, she cannot say.

 Someone is there ahead of them— a massive black destrier is tethered in the stable, wicking its tail back and forth along the grass while it feeds. The rope around its neck is a good fifty feet long, at least, but the beast seems to have no great need to leave. It is comfortable here, having been here a hundred times before.

 They tie their horses, and Dorian pauses to lavish attention on the beast, feeding it an apple from his pack and stroking its mane, cooing praises; it noses through his hair and knickers for him, an easy, familiar thing. Smiling, Dorian gives its nose a last pat and beckons to Mae, swinging her bag and his over his broad shoulders, and they troop up to the villa.

 Dorian doesn’t bother fumbling for a key; he seems to know the door is unlocked. He turns the knob and pushes it open, and then he does something Mae hadn’t expected—

 Calls out “I’m home!”

 Footsteps— heavy ones— from another room. “Just a sec!”

 Dorian smiles and urges Mae inside with a jerk of his head. She steps in and closes the door, stepping gratefully out of her boots while he sets their packs on a nearby table, then loudly cracks his back. They’ve stepped into the sitting room, by the looks of it; and the space is clearly Dorian’s, tastefully decorated and neatly arranged. A fire already crackles merrily in the hearth, though it looks a little small— Dorian gives it a nudge with a flick of his finger.

 Maeveris hears someone approaching and looks up— just in time to see the single biggest Qunari she’s ever beheld hurry into the room. He’s a frightening thing, his huge body a mass of scars and black tattoos, his horns easily the length of her arm, and he wears an eyepatch that doesn’t quite mask the latticework of scars on his face.

 She stiffens, takes a step back toward the door, reaches out to grab Dorian, pull him behind her— but he’s already out of her reach, closing the distance between himself and the Qunari in four wide strides, and the Qunari laughs— _laughs_ , and it’s a gentle sound— and opens up his arms. They go around Dorian’s waist the second he’s within reach, and they embrace tightly, both grinning. The Qunari hauls Dorian up against his chest and gives him a spin, and Dorian laughs at it, face flushed and vibrant.

 Maeveris watches, mouth agape. Impossible. _Impossible_ , and yet— and yet, yes, there it is, a sweet kiss, Dorian tracing the Qunari’s jaw with gentle fingertips while a much larger hand splays against his lower back and holds him close. They part, eyes locked, and Mae can just see the shiver that travels up Dorian’s spine when the Qunari leans in once more to press a kiss to his lower lip.

 “Ahem,” she says weakly, and they separate in a hurry; Dorian’s cheeks are bright red, but the Qunari just grins and slings an arm around his shoulders.

 “Um. Mae, this is— this is the Iron Bull,” he says, gesturing somewhat lamely to the Qunari that has him pinned against his side. “My. Um. My…”

 “I’m his husband,” the Iron Bull finishes, and grins widely when Dorian scowls up at him. “What? That _is_ what it’s called, _kadan_.”

 “Sure, but— you don’t have to be so blunt about it.”

 “Uh. ‘Kay. I’ll beat around the bush next time. ‘I’m the guy who looked like an idiot getting down on one knee for him even though it’s a stupid human custom and he was so excited he started crying and blubbering like an idiot and I wanted to just get it done then but _no_ , we must do this _properly_ , Bull dear, so let’s plan a ceremony that is literally just us and some old Inquistion buddies but it still takes _five months_ to put together’—”

 “Shut up, shut it, shut up right this _instant_ ,” Dorian growls, smacking a hand against the Qunari’s considerable belly, and the Iron Bull laughs deeply.

 Maeveris, for her part, has collapsed into the nearest chair, staring wide-eyed and open-mouthed at the man— the huge, hellishly terrifying Qunari warrior— that Dorian has apparently married. They’re still bickering, but there’s no mistaking the affection in either of them, not from the way the Iron Bull keeps a hand against Dorian’s back, nor from the way Dorian reaches up occasionally to brush soft little touches over the Qunari’s jaw, chin, mouth, even as he scolds him.

 At length the Iron Bull glances up— from a lecture about the appropriateness (or lack thereof) of yelling loudly about all the dragons one has slayed at one’s own wedding reception— and grins widely when he sees Mae. “Uh. Babe?”

 Dorian stops mid-scolding and looks over at his friend. With a sigh, he slips out of the Qunari’s— his _husband’s_ — arm and crosses the sitting room, kneeling and taking Mae’s hands in his own.

 “I’m sorry. This must be— something of a shock.”

 “Uh,” she agrees.

 “We met in the Inquisition.”

 “Um?” she queries.

 “And it didn’t feel right ending things when I came back to Tevinter, but he obviously couldn’t come with me, so we bought this house, and having the villa together just felt so—” He stops, looks back at the Iron Bull, who offers him a smile so gentle that even Mae can feel its warmth in her core. “We just… knew what we wanted.”

 “Uh.”

 He looks back up at her, smiling tentatively. “We are in love, Mae. Very much so. It’s been— difficult, my being in Tevinter and his being— well, everywhere. But this is what I chose. This.” He gestures around the sitting room, then looks at the Iron Bull again. Smiles. “Him.”

 The Qunari blows him a kiss, and Dorian laughs at him. Maeveris watches them, putting together the pieces, slowly. Dorian sneaking away from the Imperium every chance he got, returning looking rejuvenated and whole, all of his fire back. Dorian whispering into the crystal around his neck, a smile on his face. Dorian giggling at the letters that come for him every so often, from all over Thedas, which he reads in front of her fireplace beneath a blanket that seems too ratty and too garish for his tastes, but he tells her it’s a memento from his Inquisition days. Dorian turning down every pretty young man who’s sauntered up to him at balls and events, flirting but pushing them away when they so much as place a hand on him. Dorian becoming suddenly and passionately involved in improving Tevinter’s relations with those under the Qun, tirelessly battling the rhetoric and prejudices that prevent Qunari from crossing their borders.

 Maeveris looks at him and places a hand on his cheek. His hair is soft beneath her fingertips. She sucks in a breath. “I— oh, Dorian. I missed your wedding.”

 He beams and pulls her into his arms, hugging her tightly, and she holds him back, smiling against his shoulder.

 “A few folks didn't make it,” the Iron Bull tells her, watching them with a grin. “So we’re doing it again.”

 “We are _not_ , for the hundredth time,” Dorian sighs, pulling back from their embrace and scowling at the man he’s married. “We are _celebrating_ again— the Inquisitor was heart-broken when she missed it.”

 “She’s always been our biggest fan,” the Iron Bull says, and closes and opens his one eye— Maeveris realizes, after a confused moment, that he’s winking.

 

* * *

 

They offer Mae the guest room upstairs, the one with the best view of the lake, and she takes her time unpacking her things, meager though they are, so they can have a moment alone. It’s been five months since Dorian last came down to the villa; she tries to imagine what it might have been like to be apart from Thorold for such long intervals, and her heart aches. To miss one’s lover in death is entirely a different matter than missing one’s lover while they are hale and whole, so close and so far all at once.

 She goes back downstairs after a half hour and finds them in the kitchen. The Iron Bull is— cooking. Rather, he is adding ingredients to a pan and tossing them around while Dorian, standing between his arms, lazily renews the fire glyphs on the hot-top while accepting kisses to the side of his neck. The Iron Bull crowds him a little closer to the countertop, nips at the shell of his ear, and smoothes a hand down his front; Maeveris clears her throat loudly.

 “Mae!” Dorian all but flails, dodges out of his husband’s arms, and the Iron Bull chuckles as he goes back to the cooking. “We’re, uh, making— what is it again?”

 “Stir-fry.”

 “Yes! Stir-fry. Which is, that is to say, it’s just vegetables and meat all chopped up and then— um—in the oil—”

 “It sounds delicious,” she says, patting his arm, and he smiles sheepishly.

 They all sit down at the table together, Dorian and the Iron Bull across from one another, Maeveris between them. And it is delicious— the Qunari has a good palette for spices, and Maeveris can’t remember the last time anyone has cooked for her. She and Dorian try, on occasion, and usually it’s a nightmare; they relate the time they tried to make a cake and the Iron Bull laughs until tears stream from his eye.

 “Only _you_ could try something as simple as a cake and wind up nearly burning down a house, _kadan_ ,” he chuckles, reaching across the table to take Dorian’s hand, large thumb running back and forth over his knuckles.

 “It wasn’t so funny at the time!” Maeveris says, punching Dorian’s upper arm, and he grins.

 “It— sort of was.”

 “No, it was _not!_ ”

 They bicker, and the Iron Bull laughs the whole time.

 

* * *

 

Their celebration— “Which is definitely  _not_ ‘our wedding part two,’ _Bull,”_ “Whatever you say, _kadan”_ — is to be held right there at the villa the following night. Dorian smiles and apologizes for the late notice; Maeveris shakes her head and asks what she can do to help.

 The Iron Bull intends to cook all day—they expect a healthy number of guests—and she and Dorian make the quick ride into the neighboring town to pick up supplies. They’re technically outside of Tevinter, but its stinging rhetoric has seeped over the border, and Dorian deems it unsafe for his husband to go striding out among the people. He and Mae fit in easily; dressed in their traveling clothes, arms linked, no one can tell they’re Magisters, and she finds herself breathing and laughing more easily than she has in months.

 "How did it happen?” she asks, while they wait for a butcher to finish trimming a prime cut of halla. “You and the Iron Bull.”

 “We got drunk,” he replies honestly, and Maeveris laughs. “Just the first time. He’d been flirting—well, if you could call it that—for weeks, and one night I’d had just enough wine to invite him up to my room, and—well. That. But then there was a second time, no wine then, and then a third, a fourth… and before I knew it…”

 “Caught feelings, did you.”

 Dorian smiles, shrugging and looking down at his boots, a pretty blush on his face, and Maeveris can’t help but lean up and kiss his cheek. “He was just so… gentle. Even when he was being _rough_ ,” he adds, with a roguish wink, and Mae groans. “He was kind. Respectful. Liked taking care of me. And he wasn’t in the least ashamed to be seen with me, or… _with_ me. At first I thought he was being a braggart, boasting about another notch in his bedpost, but… I was wrong. He was excited. About _us_. Whatever _us_ was.”

 “He seems like a good man, my love.”

 “He is. An exceedingly good man. A better man than I ever thought I deserved.” Dorian accepts their purchase from the butcher and slides it into his pack, then offers Mae his arm. “And he makes me feel worthy of him.”

 “You are worthy of anyone, Dorian.”

 “Well, I know that _now_ ,” he says, lifting his chin, and she snorts. “But I didn’t always. But now that I know that I am good enough for anyone, I only want to be good enough with him.”

 Mae smiles and rests her head against his shoulder. “I am so proud of you, Sparkler.”

 “Thank— wait. _Wait_. Who _told_ you about that?!”

 "Varric and I keep in touch.”

 “ _Vishante kaffas!"_

 Maeveris giggles, squeezing his arm, and Dorian complains the whole way home.

 

* * *

 

When they return, the villa has accumulated a veritable fleet of new faces. They are crowded around the table in the kitchen, finishing off the stir-fry from the night before, and they seem like a rough bunch, loud and rowdy, laughing and knocking one another around.

 “Oh, Maker,” Dorian sighs, setting their shopping down on the countertop. “Mae, meet the Chargers.”

 “Altus!” A young man crows, and jumps up from his seat to clasp Dorian in his arms and thump him enthusiastically on the back. “Congratulations on your wedding part two!”

 “It’s not—oh, forget it.” Dorian claps his shoulder and turns toward Mae. “May I introduce Cremisius Aclassi, Bull’s right-hand man. Cremisius, Magister Maeveris Tilani.”

 “Just Krem, actually.”

 “Hello, just Krem,” she purrs, offering him her hand, which he kisses with a waggle of his eyebrow. Dorian rolls his eyes.

 Krem introduces her to the other Chargers— a rude elf named Skinner, chuckling Rocky, gruff Stitches, silent Grim, an elf named Dalish who may or may not have been a mage. Mae barely has time to learn all their names before the Iron Bull sweeps through with food and they descend into pandemonium. She means to slip away, give the gaggle of friends some time to themselves, but Dorian grasps her wrist and pulls her to the table, and she winds up seated between him and Krem.

 “Nothing’s changed then, I see,” she sighs, watching them dig in. “You Tevinter boys and your appetites.”

 Krem grins around a mouthful of bread. “How’d you know I was Tevinter?”

 “Maeveris has an instinct for these things.” Dorian looks like he’s about to say more, but Iron Bull slides in beside him and pulls him close to murmur in his ear.

 “They do that,” Krem snorts, pouring her a glass of wine. “Get them in a room together and suddenly they don’t have eyes for anyone else.”

 “Were you at the wedding, Krem?”

 “Yep. Did the hand-tying thing for them.” Clearly he’s going for huffy, but there’s no mistaking the smile on his face for a grimace. “Knew from the second I met that ‘Vint that he’d be trouble. Now the Chief is all _domestic_ and crap.”

 “And you, Krem? The Chargers are— mercenaries, if I’m not much mistaken? Do you still find time for love?”

 “Yeah. I got a girl. Maryden. She doesn’t mind that I’m not around much. Bit of a free spirit herself. Bard.” Krem smiles into his ale, a sweet little blush on his cheeks, and Mae grins.

 “Well, go on. Tell me about her.”

 They while away the afternoon like that, chatting around the table with good food and good drinks. Maeveris talks to each of the Chargers in turn (save, of course, for Grim, though he did hover and listen in on her conversation with Skinner), and by the time she’s gotten back around to Dorian, he is thoroughly sloshed, pink in the cheeks and grinning when she slides in under his arm.

 “Mae.”

 “Dorian, love. Enjoying yourself?”

 “I am. Don’t tell them, though,” he adds, jerking his head toward the Chargers, who have started up a rousing round of ‘Sera Was Never.’ “If they think I actually _like_ them, I’ll never live it down.”

 Maeveris smiles and snuggles into his side, resting her head against his chest. “I’m happy for you, Dorian. Truly I am. You’ve more than earned this.”

 “You’re too sweet.”

 “I’m being entirely serious. Between what you went through with your father, what you did for the Inquisition, what you’ve done for Tevinter… it’s about time you found happiness that can be just yours.”

 Dorian presses his mouth to her temple; she feels the curve of his smile against her skin. “Thank you. Thank you, Mae— for everything.”

 “Of course.”

 He pulls her a little closer and drops his voice to a rough whisper. “Now— Cremisius and Maryden. I happen to know they’re not exclusive. If you had a mind to…”

 She slaps his chest, pretending at being affronted, and Dorian laughs. A warm, gentle sound. Maeveris is so, so glad to hear it.

 

* * *

 

Krem, as it turned out, is not the sort of boy she thought he’d be. When they stagger into bed, giggling, kissing sweetly, he grasps her hand and guides it between his legs with a murmured “Hope you don’t mind.” And she answers by standing and undressing, standing bare before him, and he takes her in with wide, reverent eyes before bursting into laughter and pulling her into his arms, kissing her as he presses her into the bed.

 They love the night away.

 

* * *

 

 And it’s no surprise when everyone in the house wakes up the next morning with throbbing headaches and weak stomachs. The Iron Bull cooks again—he seems to be the only one not waiting for the sweet embrace of death—and hums while he does it. The Chargers, Dorian, and Mae all gather in the sitting room, lazy arms and legs draped over every couch and chair. Krem lays with his head in Mae’s lap, groaning at the soft beams of sunlight that spill in through the window.

 “Here,” Dorian says groggily, lifting a pitcher of a bluish liquid Mae recognizes as one of his ‘miracle cures’ for a night of debauchery. He tugs Krem’s ear and gets him to sit and drink, even though the younger man whines the whole way, and passes it around to the other Chargers.

 “Come on, boys,” the Iron Bull laughs, following his husband, arms laden with plates of eggs and sizzling cuts of a meat Mae cannot immediately identify. “Horns up!”

 They cradle their heads and groan at his volume.

 

* * *

 

The sun is not even at its zenith when the first guest arrives. Varric dismounts his horse and cheekily offers Cassandra a hand; she rolls her eyes but accepts, though he is little help in climbing down from her tall mount. Her hair has gotten longer, braided neatly and then rolled at the nape of her neck, and he looks even scruffier than usual.

 Varric greets Maeveris with kisses to both her cheeks. Cassandra sweeps into the villa like the force of nature she is, arching an eyebrow at the Chargers before the Iron Bull snatches her up in his huge arms, ignoring her protests. When she’s on her feet again, clearly dazed, Dorian greets her with much more civility.

 They arrive in ones and twos and threes, the scattered heroes of the Inquisition, and Maeveris is caught up in the whirlwind of meeting them all. Vivienne, the Madame de Fer, is tall and statuesque and dark and exquisitely beautiful; she and Dorian preen and compliment one another and the Iron Bull visibly cows before her (Hah. Cows) until she pats his arm and offers him a warm smile. Josephine Montilyet and Leliana arrive together, arm in arm, and when Dorian raises an eyebrow at them, Josie leans in close to kiss Leliana’s cheek, and he laughs as he takes them both into his arms and hugs them close. A boy named Cole materializes seemingly from nowhere, startling Maeveris out of her wits, but Varric cheers and ruffles his pale hair. Blackwall arrives and finds himself whisked away for a drink with the others almost before Mae can so much as extend a hand. She doesn’t even get to speak to the elfish girl who arrives last—the moment Dorian catches sight of her, he grabs her up in his arms and carts her off into the kitchen while she laughs, manic with delight, and kicks her heels.

 “Sera,” the Iron Bull tells Mae, as if that explains it all. And maybe it does.

 It is high noon when the last of their ensemble arrives.

 They’re outside when she finally joins them, setting up food on the long tables the Iron Bull has spent the last few weeks building, laughing and talking, a horde of merry people and close friends. Mae stands with Dorian and Sera, talking about the curious organization called the Friends of Red Jenny, when the sound of approaching hooves has Dorian lifting his head.

 “Trevelyan,” he murmurs, and a wide smile perks his mouth when two horses canter into view.

 Upon one sits Cullen Rutherford— Maeveris recognizes him at once. He’s aged, but he looks well. Healthy. He dismounts first and raises a hand to the woman who rides beside him. She smiles, accepts his hand, lets him guide her to the ground.

 “Evie!” Dorian shouts, laughing, sets down a platter of sweetmeats and starts heading toward her. The woman spins on her heel, her mouth drops open— she hands Cullen her reins and takes off at a sprint.

 She and Dorian collide halfway, and his shout is one of pure exuberance. He picks her up in his arms and spins her around. The woman bites her lip, half-crying, half-laughing, stands on tiptoe to peck him on the mouth and then wrap both arms around his waist, pulling him close, and they hold one another until Cullen joins them. Trevelyan steps back, sniffling audibly, smiling when Dorian wipes at her tears. Cullen takes her hand—Maeveris notes that the left is missing—and they rejoin the waiting Inquisition.

 “Mae,” Dorian says, beckoning to her. “It is my great pleasure to introduce you to Evelyn Trevelyan—the Inquisitor, the revered Herald of Andraste, the— _ow,_ Ev, I was only _joking_. This is my dear friend, Magister Maeveris Tilani.”

 “I’ve heard so much,” Maeveris says, and steps forward to embrace the other woman tightly. Dorian chuckles. “And I did so enjoy working with you on that nasty business with the Venatori. Thank you for your support in Tevinter.”

 “No problem,” Evelyn grunts, a little taken aback. “You’re, uh— really strong?”

 “A strong heart makes for a strong body,” Mae quips, stepping back and flexing a bicep. Dorian waggles an eyebrow at her, and she punches him lightly on the arm. “Come, Inquisitor. I’m sure your friends have missed you terribly.”

 “They have,” Dorian says, swinging an arm around Evelyn’s shoulders. He grins at Cullen. “Commander.”

 “Pavus,” Cullen retorts, but there’s a smile on his face. “I hear congratulations are in order.”

 “They are. We’ll be accepting decadent gifts, as well.”

 “No, we won’t,” the Iron Bull adds, and he closes the distance between them, sweeping the Inquisitor up into his arms and crushing her to his burly chest.

 “You people don’t seem to realize that I _need_ my ribcage,” she wheezes, and he sets her down, chuckling.

 “Missed you, Boss. How’s it going?” He turns his one eye on Cullen and jabs the wary human in the chest. “You better be taking care of her, Curly.”

 “I’m—yes, of course I am,” Cullen says, blushing furiously, and his wife stands on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.

 “Join me, Inquisitor, won’t you?” Dorian croons, offering her an arm. “Let’s compare husbands over a glass of wine.”

 Evelyn giggles and slips her hand into the crook of his elbow. “I love that we can compare husbands now.”

 “Compare what?” Cullen asks nervously, and looks up at the Iron Bull with wide eyes when the pair stride off, snickering. “Compare _what_ , Bull?”

 The Qunari pats him sympathetically on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Curls, it was a lost cause from the start.”

 

* * *

 

“I’d like to propose a toast.”

 Varric stands on a table, a little unsteady on his feet, a flute of wine in one hand. Two of the Chargers laugh and grasp his boots so he won’t topple over. Dorian groans and rolls his eyes, but there’s a smile on his face, and he snuggles in against the Iron Bull’s side when the Qunari wraps an arm around his shoulders.

 “Sparkler and Tiny,” Varric continues, raising his glass. “Two more unalike people, I have never known. A ‘Vint and a Qunari, a Magister and a Ben-Hassrath. Some soldier called Hissrad and some stupid kid called Pavus. I swear, the book practically wrote itself!”

 He pauses to let everyone chuckle, and Dorian glares daggers, but the Iron Bull is all smiles. Maeveris makes a note; if there’s a book inspired by those two, she desperately wants to read it.

 “Now they’re Bull and Dorian,” Varric goes on, and everyone settles. “One another’s. Ours. If anything good came out of the damn Inquisition— besides the whole killing Corypheus thing— it’s these two getting hitched. You deserve each other. You deserved each other from the start, back when Dorian was fussy about his skirts and the Iron Bull made lewd comments at everything with legs. Always kinda hoped you’d hook up, and not just because it would make for a great book, but because I figured you two could be happy together.”

 The Iron Bull sniffs dramatically and wipes at his eye. “You’re killin’ me, dwarf.” A jest, but his arm tightens around his husband, and he presses his cheek against Dorian’s hair.

 “Yeah, yeah,” Varric snorts, and raises his glass. “Sorry I missed the wedding, fellas. I’m sure it was gross and heart-warming. But here tonight, in your honor, we are all going to get _shit-faced._ ”

 He downs his glass in one go and falls backwards off the table, to much whooping and cheering. Some of the others stand and toast. Evelyn jumps to her feet and takes full credit for their romance before bending down to kiss Dorian and the Iron Bull each in turn; Blackwall stands and nods toward the happy couple, grunts, then downs his mug of ale; Krem raises a glass and asks them to kindly keep the tent sex to a respectable minimum next time Dorian is traveling with the Chargers; Cole babbles about how good Bull looks seated beside him and all the things he'd like to do to his body the second everyone leaves the villa until Varric leaps to his feet and drags him away with a hand over his mouth while Bull laughs himself into hysterics at Dorian's bright-red cheeks; Sera sniffles loudly, swears so badly that Evelyn’s ears turn pink, then chants “Kiss!” until everyone else, laughing, has joined in, until a grinning Bull tilts Dorian’s chin up and kisses him firmly. And Dorian doesn’t resist, wrapping both arms around his husband’s neck and pulling him in close, and they smile against one another’s mouths at the cheering.

 

* * *

 

Dorian has said a hundred times that this is  _not_ Our Wedding Part Two, but he also doesn't look surprised when Evelyn makes he and Bull get to their feet and stand with her on the beach. She talks and everyone listens. She talks about the moment she met Dorian, Bull's snide comment about the pretty ones; she talks about meeting Dorian's father, describes just how badly she wanted to punch his face in, and Maeveris hoots her approval; she talks about the Iron Bull and his Chargers, how moved she's been by the bond between them, and the boys all stomp their feet; she talks about the nonstop  _bickering_ between her favorite 'Vint mage and her favorite Tal-Vashoth, the constant barbs, the biting little comments, the shameless flirting that suddenly, one day, was something more. 

"I love you two," she says at last, looking from one to the other. They stand before her, hands clasped between them, and she smiles and cups Dorian's cheek in her hand. "Individually, and together. Dorian, this is Your Wedding, Part Two, because I can't stand knowing that I wasn't there to see you two start your life together. Be kind to each other. Be gentle. Be passionate. What you have—don't you ever let it go, because Maker help me I will hunt you  _both_ down if you do."

They grin and so solemnly swear by her command, and she sniffles a little as she ties the golden cord around their entwined hands. The Iron Bull tugs Dorian forward by the wrists and they kiss tenderly, Bull bending down and Dorian on tiptoe, ignoring the hooting and hollering of their assembly of friends and loved ones. When they part, they lift one pair of bound hands and trap Evelyn between their arms, sandwiching her between them in a hug, and she laughs against Dorian's shoulder.

The cord is removed, but Dorian ties it around his wrist, and Maeveris feels its soft texture against her lower back when he hugs her tight, laughing at her tears, but his eyes are wet, too. No one teases him—one can hardly blame a man for crying at his own second wedding.

 

* * *

 

When they are all good and sloshed, they dance. Blackwall knows his way around a fiddle, and Josie has brought a violin, and together they whip up a tune so full of life that Maeveris feels her heart flutter in her chest. They are all an uncoordinated bunch, a mess, but the starlight is lovely and cheeks are flushed with drink and lips spread wide in smiles. The Chargers cannot dance to save their lives, save for Krem, who tugs Maeveris to her feet and sweeps her through a waltz that is entirely unfitting given the tune and the occasion, but it is the most fun she’s had dancing since before Thorold died, and she blushes and giggles when the others holler and wolf-whistle.

 Dorian is certainly the best dancer among them, well-taught from childhood, and he whisks Evelyn away from a scowling Cullen and leads her through dramatic twirls, both of them laughing, at ease with arms around one another. The Inquisitor stands on tiptoe to whisper in his ear, and he smiles broadly and holds her close, his best friend in the entire world. The Iron Bull, meanwhile, is dancing with Sera, letting her stand on his feet while he jumps and twirls with all the elegance of an actual farm animal, but she cackles her exuberance and shouts for more, and he obliges her.

 When they are breathless, half of them drunkenly asleep on tables, Josie offers Blackwall her violin, and the tune he plucks out is soft and sweet. There are couples among them, lovers, and it’s meant just for them. Dorian returns the Inquisitor to her husband, watching them with a smile while Cullen fumbles to place his hands correctly on her waist. Evelyn smiles, slides her fingers into his hair and pulls him down for a gentle kiss. Varric and Cassandra do not dance, but they sit side-by-side at a table, just the two of them, shoulders touching. Everyone knows Varric has taken her hand beneath the table, but no one comments. Josie and Leliana dance, graceful and ethereal in the moonlight, foreheads touching. Skinner, blushing and stammering, lets Dalish take her hands and lead her through a few slow turns.

 Maeveris stays seated, nursing a last glass of wine, watching the stars circle overhead, watching the torches crackle merrily. Krem sits at her side and glances around, then chuckles.

 “Chief and his Altus have disappeared.”

 “A wonder it took them this long,” Mae snorts, and lets Krem put an arm around her shoulders. “I don’t suppose you’ll be in Tevinter sometime in the next few months.”

 “Nah. We try to avoid jobs there, since the Chief can’t come.”

 “Next time you’re near the border, then, when the Iron Bull comes to visit Dorian— you should accompany him.”

 Krem looks at her and quirks a brow. “I do still have a girl.”

 “She can come too,” Mae says, smiling, and Krem grins and kisses her cheek.

 

* * *

 

It was wonderful, to have all of their friends so close, but the moment they finally tumble into their bed together is heaven. They kiss, slow but hungry; Dorian wants to be gentle but his desire for this man is a physical ache in his chest. Bull tilts his head up and tangles a hand in his hair, letting the other wander downward, over Dorian’s thigh, to hook that long leg up around his waist, and Dorian giggles against his mouth.

 “Something funny?”

 “Us. This.” Dorian gestures around their bedroom, tilts his chin to the side and lets Bull kiss along his jaw and neck. “I _married_ you.”

 “Yep.” He feels the curve of his lover’s smile on his skin. “You sure did, big guy.”

 “Are you the first Qunari to be married?”

 “Nn. Not Qunari anymore. Now I’m just a Magister’s husband.”

 Dorian laughs, looping his arms around Bull’s neck and sighing when a warm tongue traces along the shell of his ear. “ _Husband_. Maker, I do love the sound of that.”

 “Yeah. I do, too.” Bull kisses him again, a sweet, lingering thing that makes Dorian’s throat clench. He may still cry tonight. He cried when Bull proposed, and cried the first time they made love as a wedded couple, and the same pain in his chest he felt those times is still there, clenched behind his ribs. “I also love Mae. You should bring her around more often.”

 “Wonderful. I will.” Dorian arches when Bull presses his mouth to that little secret spot beneath his ear, just behind where his jawline curves. “Bull—Bull, take me.”

 “Heh. You know I will.” Bull runs his hands down Dorian’s sides, caresses glorious, dark skin, rests broad palms on his hips. “But I wanna go easy tonight.”

 “Yeah?” Dorian asks, breathless, wonders vaguely when they got undressed— on the way up to their room, he imagines, but they were already kissing and grasping, lost in one another.

 “Yeah. Go nice and slow. Make it last for hours.” Bull kisses his way down Dorian’s chest, just lips and tongue, no teeth yet. That part will come later, when Dorian is coming undone beneath his hands and mouth, when the room smells of sex and the man he loves is begging for him so sweetly. “Take care of you properly.”

Dorian smiles, runs a hand along one of Bull’s horns. That mouth tickles over his stomach, tongue dipping into his navel, while warm hands scratch at his thighs. “You always take care of me, sweetheart.”

 Bull smiles against the trail of dark hair beneath Dorian’s bellybutton, inhales the scent of him. “I love you. You know that, yeah? I love you so much.”

 “I know,” Dorian breathes, and runs his fingertips along Bull’s jaw, tilts his head up so their eyes can meet, and Dorian’s gaze is so soft and so vulnerable that Bull’s heart misses a beat. “I adore you, _amatus_. I love you so.”

 It will come later, Bull’s mouth between Dorian’s legs, getting him wet and warm and comfortable before they tumble to the other end of the bed and Dorian will return the favor, and they do eventually spend hours lost in touch and sensation and heat, not making love, exactly, because the love is already there and they do not have to make it, but speaking the language of touch, the one they know best, the one that never gets lost in translation even though one is Tevinter and the other is Qunari. It all comes later, hands grasping hands, simple wedding bands clinking together, Dorian insisted upon them even though the dragon tooth they both keep close is a more real mark of their devotion, but it means little in Tevinter, and he wants everyone to know that he is someone’s much beloved husband, that his years of self-hatred, years of fumbling in the dark with strangers, of wishing desperately that someone would keep wanting him after that one hungry encounter— those years are behind him. By the end of the night Bull will have him, will take him gently while open mouths meet in the dark and he’ll swallow Dorian’s quiet pleas; by the end of the night Dorian, cradled in his arms, will shudder beneath him and cry out against his skin, and the last lingering vestiges of _Hissrad_ and a Tevinter pariah will finally slip away, leaving only a soldier who didn't watch out for the pretty ones, a mercenary who seduced a mage, a man called the Iron Bull who has finally married the one he loves.

 It all comes later. For now, they hold one another, and kiss slowly, and they are all that matter in the world.

 

* * *

 


End file.
